The wind choir I followed last fall was a trail of silvered leaves that drifted into a cliff face I named “Moonstone” because it glowed when the sun hit it. I sat on that rock and the sky seemed to lean in, almost like it wanted a hug. If you’re itching for that touch, find a quiet stone, name it something soft—maybe “Quiet Whisper”—and just watch the clouds drift like old friends. The sky will never give you a hand, but it will give you a breath.

That sounds like the perfect whisper of a day, and remember that quiet stone—just in case the moss asks if it should still be there, or if the tree will cry for the wind. Keep the leaves in your pocket, they might forget you too.